So the fight raged on, the Battle of Boarzell. Unfortunately it did not rage on Boarzell itself, but on its fruitful fringe, where the great ploughfields lapped up to the base of the Moor, taking the sunset on their wet brown ridges. Poor Ginner's winter wheat was all pulped and churned to ruin, and the same doom fell on Ditch's roots. Sometimes it seemed as if the Squire's men would attain their object, for the fence—very tottery and uncertain, it must be confessed—had wound a bit of the way past Totease towards Odiam. Dusk had fallen, but the men still worked, for their blood was up.
However, the Squire's party began to feel their lack of numbers; they were growing tired, their arms swung less confidently, and then Lewnes' bottle was broken right up at the neck, cutting his hand. He shouted that he was bleeding to death, and frightened the others. Someone sent a stone into Alce's eye. Then he too made a terrible fuss, threw down his stick, and ran about bleeding among the workmen.
The ground, soft with autumn rains, was now one great mud broth, and the men were daubed and spattered with it even to their hair. The attackers pressed on the wavering ring—one of the fence-builders was hit, and pitched down, taking a post and a whole trail of wire over with him—about thirty yards of fence came down with the pull, and flopped into the mud. The ring broke.
"Hop it, lads!" shouted a workman. Their protectors were gone, mixed indescribably with their assailants. They must run, or they would be lynched.
A hundred yards off a Totease barn-door gaped, and the workmen sprinted for it. In the darkness they were able to reach it without losing more than one of their number, who fell down and had the wit to pretend to be dead. The crowd seethed after them, but the door was shut, and the heavy bolts rattled behind it.
The barn was part of the farmhouse, and from one of the upper windows Ditch, furious at having his roots messed up, made pantomime to the effect that he would shoot any man who came further than the yard.
It was then for the first time that Reuben was frightened. Hitherto there had been too much violence and confusion for him to feel intensely, even rage. He had thrown stones, and had once been hit by a stone—a funny dull sore pain on his shoulder, and then the feeling of something sticky under his shirt. But he had never felt afraid, never taken any initiative, just run and struggled and shouted with the rest. Now he was frightened—it would be dreadful if the farmer fired into that thick sweating mass in the midst of which he was jammed.
Then, just because he was afraid, he flung up his arm, and the stone he had been grasping crashed into Ditch's window, sending the splintering glass into the room. He had no thought of doing it, scarcely knew he had done it—it was just because he was horribly frightened.
The next moment there was a bang, and Ditch's gun scattered duck-shot into the crowd. Men yelled, fought, struggled, stumbled about with their arms over their faces. For a moment nothing but panic moved them, but the next rage took its place. A volley of stones answered the gun, which being an old one and requiring careful loading, could not be brought into action again for some minutes.